Peut-Être (Maybe)
by MoldovanHats
Summary: Éponine's musings on Les Amis de l'ABC Very slight Enjolras/Grantaire and Éponine/Marius.


**Peut-Etre (Maybe)** - a Les Misérables fanfiction

_This is my first ever story, please don't hate it. It's Éponine's view of Les Amis (and Marius). There's very slight Enjolras/Grantaire and Éponine/Marius. Obviously, I don't own the book, musical, film or any of the characters. _

_So, try and enjoy;_

The doors of the Café Musain rattled a little as she opened them, but no one inside noticed – the majority of them were too drunk to notice anything, and made her way to the upper room where she knew Les Amis de l'ABC held their meetings. No one in the upper room noticed her entrance either, but for different reasons than those downstairs (well, apart from Grantaire, who was perched dangerously on the edge of his chair, bottle in hand). Les Amis were all listening intently to their leader, Enjolras, giving one of his speeches. Her life thus far had instilled in her a definite sense of cynicism when it came to pretty, young boys making speeches about the future, so Éponine Thénardier soon found herself bored. She proceeded to amuse herself by trying to gauge what the rest of the group was thinking.

There was Enjolras, about whom she had no doubt; he was thinking of Patria, and of a republic and of little else. He was easy to figure out, and she wanted someone more complex.

It was at that moment that Courfeyrac let out a little cough, covering his mouth with his hand. Eternally the joker, Courfeyrac pretended to cough again, and launched into a put-on coughing fit, and only stopped when he noticed the glare Enjolras was sending towards him. He muttered, "Sorry" and waved his hand in a sort of 'carry on, don't mind me' gesture.

Throughout Courfeyrac's little coughing fit, Joly, sitting across the table, had grown progressively paler until his face matched the white in the tricolore. No doubt he had already managed to convince himself that he had just caught some form of rare flu, and that he would be dead within a week.

Oblivious to Joly's ministrations, Grantaire had managed to sit back in his chair, lounging ungracefully, gaze trained on Enjolras, still pontificating. Poor broken Grantaire, almost permanently in a state of inebriation, presumably due partly to some sort of past pain that had been inflicted upon him. Though the majority of the room was painfully aware of another cause of the incessant drinking. A cause named Enjolras. It was obvious to all except the aforementioned that Grantaire had a deep love for his leader, that he would happily follow Enjolras anywhere, even to the death.

Combeferre was readjusting his glasses before going back to his papers. No one was entirely sure what he scribbled down during the meetings, but everyone presumed it somehow helped the revolution, so no one ever said anything.

Sitting across the table from Combeferre, enraptured by Enjolras' speech, Feuilly shifted in his chair. His thoughts were pretty easy to gauge as well – France. Fans. Poland. France. Fans. Poland.

Bahorel and Prouvaire sat at the end of the table. Bahorel grinning at nothing in particular and Prouvaire scratching words down on paper as he listened, presumably some romanticist drivel that would have made Éponine violently sick.

One member of Les Amis, Bossuet, was absent that night. Éponine had heard that he had tripped getting out of bed and broke his arm in three places. Typical L'aigle…

That left Marius, sitting near the front, beside Courfeyrac. Marius. Monsieur Pontmercy. The Bonapartist among Republicans. Her Marius. 'If only' she whispered quietly to herself. His heart belonged to that Cosette Fauchelevent.  
It was just then that her body decided the best way to pass the time was to give her a nice big sneeze to contend with.

When she composed herself, she noticed two people staring at her. The first was Joly, who looked as if he was about to pass out in fright, and the second was Marius. He looked at her with caring eyes and this little smile that made her heart skip about four, never mind just one, beat. 'Maybe' she thought to herself. 'Just maybe…'


End file.
